Ruby Jazzler

Of the Paragon Cafe.

“Where’s Blinky?” asked the usually affable Splodge in
Uncharacteristic whining tones.

“The ontological question for the day, my dear friends,”
Boomed Wombo, always eager to educate his young friends,
Is not “Where is Blinky?”, but “What is Blinky?”

“What, what, what the?” stammered Flap. “All
You can gibber about is silly questions when we’ve got the
Shifty Dingos waiting outside for us. Go
Back tp dreaming of Plato and his silly cave.”

Marcie muttered under her breath, “Silly old geezer, time we sent him off to an
Old People’s Home.”

Then, audibly, “We’re having an existential
Crisis and Blinky has deserted us. Where is he?”

Nutsy raised her voice. “That narcissistic chauvinist,
Well rid of him, I say.”

Mr Gloop reached down and
Placed a Tin of First Grade Vietnamese Spinach on
The polished counter. “Anyone for Popeye’s favourite,” asked Mr Gloop,
“You might need this in the near future,” nodding towards the Shifties.

The stained-glass doors at the front of the Paragon
Burst open.
A figure back-lit by lightning bolts posed,
Resembling the Statue of Liberty.

Nutsy cried, “It’s Meggsy!”

“It sure is,” chortled Meggsy, holding aloft an aerosol can. “I heard you had a bit of bovver
Down here at the Paragon with the Shifties. I nicked down to
Bunnings and bought a can of Doggo-go-go,
Quick-acting dog deterrent. One Lichtenstein PUFF of Doggo-go-go and they’re gone.
Works on Dingos too.”

For two days, Bliny held a dialectical conversation with himself.
He realised the toxicity of The Gang and the closeting nature of his
Bushland Home. At 5.00 a.m. he’d snuck aboard the Rattler from Katoomba
To Sydney avoiding the steely gaze of the train guard. In the early morning light, he roamed the streets of inner Sydney. He climbed the stairs of a Cathedral near Hyde Park. At the top of the steps, a figure clothed in black with a white collar leered at him,
“What can we do for you young man?” Blinky quickly reversed down the stairs continuing his quest for Infinite Grace.

In Surry Hills, this disconsolate, bedraggled pre-pubescent koala
Spied a sign: Madame Pettyfer’s Hostel
For Merchant Sailors, Soldiers-of-Fortune and Errant Marsupials.
7/6 per night – Full Board.

Blinkie knocked.

“Yairs?” said the homely figure of Madame Pettyfer as she opened
The door of her establishment.
“Can I have a bed for a couple of nights?” asked Blinky.
“Sure you can, dearie, come on in.”

Blinky scratched his nascent gonads and entered the
Welcoming warmth of Madame Pettyfer’s Hostel.
He wondered if the good Madame had
Banana-split sundaes on the dessert menu.

Entering the living room, Blinky felt as popular as a Pentescotal Preacher
In a Hooters Bar..

Six rather ramshackle old men with faces like walnuts,
peered at him. “Who noo broon coo,
What ‘ave we ‘ere?” blurted one through a beard like a possum’s nest.

Blinky drew himself to his full one- metre height,
put on his best larrikin smile, “I’m Blinky and I’m here for a
Couple of days – got a problem with that, Sport?”

The possum nested one slapped his thigh, “I like the cut of yer jib,
Young fella. Anyone as cheeky as you can stay as long as he likes.”

Blinky felt like an honoured customer in a New Car
Sales Room..

He was gearing up … for anything. And good riddance to the gang.